After dinner, the little family wrapped up for the night and headed to bed.
Arthur lay sprawled on the bed, absentmindedly holding Gloria's soft hand in his palm, moving it up and down like a toy.
He was supposed to be thinking over today's chaotic events and planning tomorrow... but honestly, the hand was more interesting.
Still, before he could get too distracted, Arthur turned his head slightly and caught sight of David snoring away on the worn-out sofa.
His eyes were filled with deep disgust.
It's time to move out of Santo Domingo.
Definitely time.
Of course, Arthur's plan to make money was already taking shape:
Sell suppressors on the black market, targeting both cyberpunks and struggling common folks.
Set up a company afterward. Submit the paperwork way, way after.
(Ah, classic Night City regulations: do it first, apologize later.)
If the mega-corporations could get away with it, why couldn't Arthur Martinez?
As for the Animal Gang... yeah, those idiots would need "special handling" later.
After all, they were stupid to begin with, and injecting steroids every day just made them even more brain-dead.
If the Voodoo Boys were crazy, the Animals were simply allergic to common sense.
There's a long road ahead.
The more Arthur thought about it, the more irritated he became.
Didn't I just want to change careers and become a hardworking company dog? Why is it so damn troublesome?
Unable to contain himself, Arthur turned to Gloria beside him, leaned close, and whispered something scandalous into her ear.
Gloria's face instantly turned beet red.
She glanced guiltily at David's sleeping figure... then yanked the blanket over her head to hide.
The dragon roared, the tiger howled.
—hiss—
(The following 2,000 words of adult-rated content have been omitted to preserve Night City's already-questionable morals.)
Early the next morning, Arthur stumbled out of bed groggily.
Gloria had almost fled last night.
After all, it was rain after a long drought — and Arthur had turned into a wild beast.
If he hadn't taken control at the last second, the two might have ended up staring at each other awkwardly for hours.
Arthur scratched the back of his head and yawned.
Maybe… maybe I should wait a little longer before pushing things further.
But as he watched Gloria sneaking embarrassed glances at David, a sly grin crept onto Arthur's face.
Meanwhile, poor David sat at the table eating synthetic bread, confused beyond belief.
He could feel it — the cold, distant gaze from his mother.
The same woman who used to lovingly stuff his plate full just yesterday... now stared at him like he was a cockroach crawling across the floor.
What's going on?
Why doesn't mom love me anymore?!
David's little heart broke.
No... no... mom must still love me!
Arthur stood by the window, smoking a cigarette, quietly observing the city waking up below.
In the early light, a trauma team AV zoomed past, loudspeakers blaring:
"This is the Trauma Team! Setting out to rescue the target client—please clear the airspace!"
Further away, a squad of Terrorist Mobile Unit soldiers rappelled from a gunship, their rifles already barking.
Another cyberpsycho had apparently decided to greet the morning with a city block shootout.
Here and there, highly modified mercenaries bounced from rooftop to rooftop like cybernetic grasshoppers.
Sporadic gunfire echoed across the concrete jungle.
"Good morning, Night City..."
Stanley's exaggerated voice howled from the radio, stretching every syllable like he was hosting a circus instead of a news show.
Arthur took a deep breath, exhaled a puff of smoke.
"Night City is still so lively," he muttered. "No different from more than ten years ago."
He shrugged, grabbed the rumpled clothes next to the bed, and threw them on.
As he made his way to the table, he scratched his head in mild irritation.
Yesterday I had real chicken. Today... cheap synthetic bread again?
Life really is full of ups and downs.
A little while later, Arthur and David stepped outside into the corridors of their rundown apartment block.
The hallway was thick with the smell of sour vomit and rot.
Black garbage bags were stacked in the corners like barricades, leaking suspicious fluids.
A few drugged-up residents were either passed out against the walls or crawling on the floor in search of their next fix.
Every few steps, Arthur had to dodge around a zombie-like addict clutching a cheap Mewtwo headset and moaning into an empty beer cup.
No matter what era you were from, you had to admire Night City's commitment to vibrant urban life.
When they finally made it to the street, David immediately tensed up.
He shot his father a wary look, clutching his backpack like a life preserver.
Last time, Arthur had casually stolen a gang car to drive him to school.
David was traumatized.
"Hey, hey, what's with that look in your eyes?!" Arthur huffed.
"Am I, your great father, the kind of unreliable person who robs people in broad daylight?"
David froze.
Thought about it seriously.
Then nodded without hesitation.
Arthur: "..."
His mouth twitched violently.
He dug into his pocket, pulled out a keyring, and spun it around his finger with exaggerated flair.
"My friend gave me a car yesterday.
Today, no need to 'borrow' anything from our good pals at the Sixth Street Gang."
He grinned devilishly.
"Though I'm kinda worried... won't they feel hurt if we suddenly don't rob them anymore?"
David breathed a sigh of relief at first — but when he heard that last part, he couldn't help roasting his dad:
"The Sixth Street Gang must be celebrating.
Finally, their cars can rest easy in their parking lots."
Arthur shrugged, nonchalant.
"Eh, they're gangsters.
A little stress builds character."
The two quickly reached the spot where Arthur had parked last night.
Surprisingly, the motorcycle was still there — untouched, unscratched.
Probably because no one in Night City bothered stealing old two-wheelers anymore.
Or maybe, just maybe, the model was so ancient even a desperate junkie wouldn't look twice.
David's eyes immediately lit up.
"Whoa! Is this a Brennan Apollo?!"
He ran up and started lovingly stroking the battered frame like it was a rare treasure.
The Apollo wasn't fancy.
It wasn't elegant.
There was no neon trim, no slick central console AI.
It was pure mechanical strength — built for the Badlands, not the city.
Tough as nails.
Loud as hell.
Reliable to the end.
Arthur handed David a slightly cracked helmet from the side compartment.
"Here. Put this on.
And hold on tight, rookie."
This wasn't Scorpion's Apollo from the stories, but another gift from the wanderers.
Most likely salvaged from some dead Nomad clan.
Rough, scratched, and patched up — but still kicking.
David quickly hopped onto the backseat, his face practically glowing with excitement.
Arthur turned the key.
The Apollo roared to life, the engine growling like a hungry beast.
They roared down the cracked streets of Santo Domingo, the rising sun casting long shadows behind them.
A new day had begun in Night City — full of danger, dreams, and the faint smell of burnt oil.
And Arthur Martinez was right in the middle of it.
(End of Chapter 40!)